


Sherlock's Problem

by Shinokama



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinokama/pseuds/Shinokama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part one in this series, in which Sherlock realizes he has genuine feelings for John Watson. It's set after Sherlock comes back from the dead. It does have a story line, and there is smut ahead if you stick with it. Most importantly, inspiration for the story comes from the poem "I Am Not Yours" by Sara Teasdale, which is referenced in part 4. Oh, and and the sentences in italic are Sherlock's mental thoughts, just in case anyone starts wondering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He did love John. But a sociopath couldn’t really love, so did that mean he wasn’t a true sociopath? More importantly, why didn’t he care? What was he doing anymore, besides thinking about John.

The cases still got solved, sure, but he didn’t _need_ them like he used to. Now he needed _John_ , wanted _John’s_ attention, craved _John’s_ praise and awe and adorable gasps and exclamations when he figured out something particularly clever. (Which was pretty much everything, according to John’s responses.)

He was taken aback by another realization, at the fact that he worked cases now to impress John.That’s all he wanted out of them these days; not the adrenaline, not the rush, not the police attention. None of it mattered if John wasn’t there to share the blood pounding in their veins as they flew around London like madmen on some outrageous murder case. He wanted to do it with John, wanted John to watch him, wanted to impress and flaunt his talent for John since he seemed to fancy it so much.

Dear Lord, he was completely flipped. He felt almost like he was a different person he didn’t understand. How could one short, greying, solid-build, ex-soldier change _he_ , Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes? It didn’t make any sense! But… Sherlock’s mind flashed to one of many memories he had stored with acute precision; John grinning, his eyes all crinkled, the lines in his face making him look somehow younger, more attractive, his laugh echoing through Sherlock’s mind palace like a resonate bell. His heart melted a bit. He signed softly. He finally got it.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

 

**_ TWO MONTHS LATER _ **

 

Sherlock was _still_ disturbed by his newest personal deduction. Disturbed and out of even his own depth. And he didn’t like it one bit. He was obsessed. Not with a case, not with a drug, but with a John. _His_ John, specifically. Only the ex-soldier wasn’t really his, now was he?

They only put up with each other, lived together, worked cases together, shared everything together…Sherlock exhaled sharply, slamming his fist into the wall beside him. It was so frustrating! He had never felt any emotion close to something like this before, and honestly…He got up from his couch and started pacing the room.

There was a rolling in his stomach, a sick feeling of unease, but maybe not quite unease. Maybe it was unease... _Yes and no to unease_. And..he glanced at his hands. Yes, shaking, just like every time he thought of this subject since his revelation of what had been in his subconscious since day one. He was…frightened? _Nervous? Anxious? Uneasy?_ There it was again, that word unease. Like it meant something. It was on repeat inside his head, like a broken record. _Unease unease unease, why_ —

The door to the flat opened behind him. Without looking he could hear and smell that it was John, smell it from his day old clothes and musky natural scent, hear how he slightly favored one side as he walked with heavy and deliberate steps— _Must mean he’s tired_ —everything about John solid and unmistakable.

Sherlock spun around even as his mind automatically made these connections, whirling around to point a long bony finger straight at John’s chest. “Out,” he said shortly, keeping his demanding stance despite the look of shock then annoyance then the classic “Why do I ever expect anything else from him” expression that flickered across John’s face at Sherlock’s order.

“Why?” John asked him tartly, folding his arms across his chest, head tilted down and to his right, silently strong but at the same time offended and hurt by Sherlock’s abruptness. _So obvious._

“I’m busy,” he replied, waving his hands at the shorter man still loitering in the doorway. “Out John. Now.” _No time for reasons. Need to be alone._  His mind had snapped to _another_ realization the second John presented himself home, and he finally understood why he was so uneasy, and it was making him start to feel sick.

“Sherlock, I live here too,” John protested doggedly, “I just get home from work and this is what you—“

“No John, out now! No more!” Sherlock yelled, losing his cool and actually stomping his foot loudly before he could try and get control of himself. _Maybe I don’t want control, maybe that’s why—_

“You bloody..arrogant.. _twat_ ,” John spat out darkly, and by the first syllable Sherlock’s blood froze. _Shouldn’t have been so harsh._ “You can never think of anyone but yourself can you?”

Sherlock was silent, still, not even breathing. John shook his head bitterly, his eyes full of… _Betrayal, hurt, sadness._ “One day.” John stopped, paused, considered his words.

Sherlock remained unmoving, staring at John as his emotions played across his face, his heart pounding in his throat.

“One day you’ll get that I can only take so much from you.” And with nothing else, John turned and left the flat, closing the door behind him and firmly walking down the stairs and out the main door. He was emotionally hurt by Sherlock’s seeming coldness. It was obvious in his face, his words, his tone. Sherlock couldn’t push him that far anymore, not without risking losing him for good, not after lying to him about being dead for two years and then showing up out of the blue.

 _Doesn’t matter right now._ With a gut-wrenching tug his mind reminded him why he felt so uneasy, why it was really definitely unease, shaming him for not coming to the realization sooner, disgracing him for not wanting to face it.

He loved John; he couldn’t see his life without the short greying scruffy doctor in it beside him always just like they had been, like they finally were again at long last. That’s why he agreed to come back to London in the first place, not because of some stupid boring bloody terrorists Mycroft could handle on his own.

But two months ago to the date, Sherlock realized what his brain had been trying to tell him all along. He really, really, actually, _loved_ John. He _wanted_ John. Romantically, sexually, emotionally, for a real relationship, all of the above. _But._ Sherlock grew dizzy with how sick he felt. Physically sick. In the pit of his stomach, churning, hot. He lurched to the nearest bathroom as fast as his unsteady legs could go.

But the reality was that John may not, probably didn’t, never showed signs that he was ever interested in Sherlock back. And he never said or suggested he _loved_ him. Not beyond the realm of being his friend. _In fact, he’s all the time on about definitely not being gay._

Sherlock’s legs gave out. He sunk to his knees with something short of grace and decided the toilet wouldn’t cut it. He leaned over and was violently sick in the tub, so sick his pulled three different muscles in his side as he vomited.

With a great heaving gasp of air he surprised and actually _frightened_ himself as he began to sob uncontrollably while still throwing up what felt like his entire being, even though he hadn’t remembered eating anything since yesterday. Heaves wracked his body hard, the tub pressed into his ribs cruelly, and his breathless, wrenching sobs wouldn’t turn off, no matter how hard he willed them too.

Too many feelings overloaded him, and he managed to scramble over the lip of the tub and land hard in the basin of it, rolling into the fetal position and grasping his head furiously with both hands, making sounds of anguish that echoed in the tub around him. He had never had such a breakdown, any breakdown, in his _entire life_ , and that scared him even more because it clearly wasn’t _normal_ and his terror continued to grow until his body was finally so spent it could literally do no more than lie there, covered in sweat and fluids and shaking and cold.

He continued to lie in the tub for quite some time, vacant eyes staring at the white wall across from the floor of the tub that his cheek was pressed against, trying to figure out what had gone so wrong and in a weak state of shock at how his body had acted.

 _It’s bloody John,_ he decided. _John will be the one to ruin me._


	2. Sherlock's Plan Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes Sherlock worry, drunk texting ensues. A relatively short chapter. Apologies, but the others will be longer.

Sherlock had been waiting for John all night. He currently sat sprawled out in his chair, sulking in the dim lighting of the living room, waiting silently in the shadows that played through the empty space around him.  _Lonely._

He felt somewhat better, maybe just more composed, now that he had showered and changed clothes, but his side still ached, reminding him that not all was well. _As if I didn’t notice with John not showing back up._ He checked his watch. _2 Am._

He had come to a decision. He had thought it over carefully, meticulously, while he let his skin boil in the steaming water of the shower, the fog giving him a world to think in peace and detachment. He went over every possible angle of it, every way it could be taken, every possible outcome.

So far, he figured his plan could go one of four most likely ways. One, John would ignore what he needed to say, take it as a joke, and they would move on from the incident with nothing more than a laugh and more ammunition to prod Sherlock with when John decided to subtly pick on him during a case.

Two, John would listen, take it seriously, and then hate Sherlock and leave for good. _Leave me to rot. And die._ There would be no more meaning to life if John left him, what could he possibly live for at that point. His hands started to tremble. He clasped them together tightly at the absurdity of the unbidden thought.

Three. John would…accept his love, and do nothing about it. _Would be awkward at best._ Which left four, which would be John accepting Sherlock’s love and…returning it. _Possibly. Probably not._

He gritted his teeth. It _was_ a possibility. He couldn’t let himself forget or discount that. It was the only thing motivating him to _act._ That, and the fact that he was apparently losing his mind none too slowly and going more insane than usual.

Another nagging thought pressed again into his mind. _Where’s John?_ He checked his watch again. _2:15Am._ Sherlock felt awful.

Something bubbled in his stomach, and for a second he thought he was going to be sick again. He realized it was an emotion, not a physical illness. _What emotion._ He cycled through all he had known. Nothing fit. What where the symptoms? Why did he feel the emotion? He had just thought of how he hurt John once again tonight without actually trying to hurt him—

 _Guilt._ His nose wrinkled. To distract himself Sherlock quickly whipped out his cellphone, not bothering to wince as the bright cell light semi-blinded him. Gliding his fingers over the keys from memory as his pupils adjusted, Sherlock wrote John a message.

_You are allowed back now. - SH_

He waited a full thirty seconds. No answer.

_Come home. - SH_

He waited another thirty seconds.

_Please come home? - SH_

Nothing.

_I’m sorry, John. - SH_

What else? What else could he say?

_If you come back I will make you an amazing dinner tomorrow night. - SH_

He rolled his eyes as he realized the mistake he made.

_Tonight, not tomorrow night. - SH_

He paused. Maybe John wouldn’t get it. He had probably gone to a bar. Better be clear.

_Because it’s already 2Am today. - SH_

John wasn’t talking.

_John, please. - SH_

Still nothing.

_John? - SH_

What if John was spending the night with some idiot woman he met and forgot about Sherlock completely? Or worse, what if he got too drunk and was mugged and stabbed and left in an alley somewhere to die and he _needed_ Sherlock?

_John please come back. - SH_

Shit shit shit.

_John bloody well answer me or I will find you and embarrass you in front of whoever you’re with. -SH_

He got up to go get his coat just as his phone finally beeped at him. He had a message.

_Yooou? Begging? Offering bribes? Thrreating? Desperate mcuh? -JW_

His eyes widened momentarily at the text, his chest loosening what he hadn’t even realized had been tight. Judging by the errors in the message, John had done what Sherlock had suspected and was now shitfaced at some bar. Probably the one a few blocks away, he preferred that one because of the blonde waitress that always flirted shamelessly with him. He rolled his eyes.

_You are drunk. Get to the flat immediately. -SH_

His phone beeped.

_I take orders from arsehoels. -JW_

Sherlock shook his head. Shameful. His phone beeped again.

_Don’t. I don’t take assle from arseholes. -JW_

Was that supposed to be a joke? (h)assle from arseholes?

_Lol -JW_

Apparently so. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Get home right now or so help me I will hunt you down. - SH_

Beep.

_I am a grown man Shitlock. -JW_

Sherlock huffed at the phone.

_Stop being a child. -SH_

Beep.

_Sotp being a dicjk. -AH_

What did ‘AH’ even mean?

_AH? -SH_

Beep.

_Arsehole. Changed it for you. - JW_

Sherlock really didn’t want to go get John with him being this much of an idiot. He decided to suck up.

_My offer expires in one hour. I will cook you a delicious feast, treat you like a king. All you have to do is come home within an hour. You don’t know how well I cook. - SH_

Beep.

_Didn’t evan know you coulbd. - JW_

He huffed again.

_I’m insulted. You have 30 minutes now or all bribes are off. - SH_

Beep.

_You only offered one, twat. - JW_

He growled.

_Just get here. -SH_

Beep.

_Patence is a virtue. I expect a 5bloodystar dinner tinght. - JW_

Sherlock let out the longest sigh he was capable of, leaning back into his chair and getting comfortable again. He closed his eyes and drifted halfway to a nap, waiting for John to return home, content.


	3. Breakfast at The Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is hungover, Sherlock is being a little coy, and dinner plans are sealed.

Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment when he finally heard John moving around in his room. His inner clock told him it was roughly two in the afternoon.

John had been asleep since coming home last night,  _t_ _his morning_ , uttering some rude (mostly intelligible) insults at Sherlock for being a wanker, and barely making it to his bed before collapsing drunkenly into a figurative mini coma. Sherlock had followed him nervously, ignoring the constant stream of slurred insults, ready to catch John in case he fell from the surplus of alcohol in his bloodstream, but he had been fine, just unsteady, and after he started snoring loudly Sherlock left him to dream and thought more on his plan for the upcoming night.

It took him until around seven in the morning, but he had nailed out all the details. After that there seemed little point in sleeping, especially since his odds of sleeping went down astronomically when the sun came up, so he decided to work on a personal experiment involving various cultures he grew in and out of the fridge.

Eventually John managed to shuffle into the kitchen, no doubt looking for something to take away the edge of the killer hangover he was having. “Morning sleeping beauty,” Sherlock monotoned, not looking up. John grunted at him.

 _Obviously hung over, quite possibly still peeved about last night._ “Coffee is brewing, mug is by the pot, aspirin is by the mug,” Sherlock continued. He paused, letting John’s hungover and sluggish brain take some time to absorb what he said.

“Brunch is in the fridge if you like.” He heard John slowly turn to face him. Sherlock had a good idea that John’s face would hold some degree of surprise for his consideration, but he remained focused, disciplined, concentrating on the culture under his microscope and refusing to look up. The silence lengthened.

“Thanks,” John finally replied, genuine surprise in his voice, proving Sherlock’s theory correct.

 _No need to look up now. Don’t look at him yet._ But he grew disinterested in the culture he was examining and instead focused on listening to John bumble around the kitchen, reaching for a mug before remembering that Sherlock had told him he had already put a fresh one out, pouring his coffee, unscrewing the bottle of aspirin with slight difficulty due to the fact his fingers were always a little weak for a bit after he woke, popping back two of them, and drowning them with a swallow of rich black coffee.

He paused for a few minutes, and Sherlock could hear him sipping at his coffee and practically _feel_ him staring at the top of his own head, studying him. Utterly disciplined, Sherlock gave no indication he was anything but absorbed in his experiment, and eventually John ran out of coffee.

He turned to refill his mug, somehow forgot, and instead ambled to the fridge, peaking in with what Sherlock assumed from John’s slight intake of breath and stiffening body movements was apprehension. Instead of the usual bloody and vulgar bits of various specimens, John found a plate pilled with hash browns, bacon, and some bangers. There was also a can of apricot preserves placed by the plate, because Sherlock knew it was John’s favorite.

“You cooked this?” John asked, sounding less hungover now that he had some coffee and pills in his system. “Consider it a prelude to tonight’s great dinner, my dear Watson.” John snorted at that, making Sherlock’s mouth twitch up at the corners in response. “There is also two slices of bread in the toaster ready to be made into toast,” Sherlock added.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said again with feeling. Sherlock could hear the other man take the plate to the microwave and set the time and heard him pop the switch down on the toaster.

“Said that already,” Sherlock replied. “Repetition is redundant.” He practically heard John’s sarcastically exasperated facial expression and resulting eye roll.

“Sod off,” John retorted. _There._ All was mended. John forgave him and Sherlock continued to look at the now offensively boring culture. He heard the microwave beep and in short order the pop of the toaster coming up, and listened while John spread the apricot preserve on the toast and grabbed his food. John sat across from him at their table, eating silently while studying Sherlock openly.

“Mug’s empty,” Sherlock commented, listening to the rustle of clothing as John turned to look for the forgotten coffee mug sitting on the counter.

“How do you do that?” John sighed as he got up to refill it and sit back down.  

“Knew you needed your coffee fix,” Sherlock replied, never wavering from the slide his eyes now had memorized.

“Speaking of ‘fix’, what are you so fixated on there?” John asked him through a mouthful of toast.

“Culture found in fridge drawer. Approximately eight weeks old,” he replied, noting John’s body stiffen in repulsion. “Don’t worry, I scrubbed down the fridge before I put your food in it,” he said before John could ask.

“Oh, good,” John said, trying to sound casual about it. Sherlock could still hear the obvious relief in his tone since he forgot to check for himself. _How trite. He thinks I’d let him eat food that had been near something so foul as mold._ He grinned.

“So,” John started again. “Dinner plans tonight?” _Double checking or asking for details?_

“I just told you brunch was a prelude to tonight’s feast,” he rapidly stated in his usual way. “So of course dinner plans tonight, which for the sake of your forgetful memory I will remind involves myself, and you, here, tonight, at eight.” He paused. “For dinner.”

Finally, _finally_ , he permitted himself to look up, plastering a scathing look of amusement on his face. Quickly he took in John’s rumpled bedclothes, which were actually the same clothes he wore the day before but Sherlock didn’t care, took in his fluffed hair sticking up in places, his unshaven face, and still ever so slightly sleepy blue eyes. A part of him warmed just a little.

John chuckled at Sherlock’s answer rather than getting annoyed. “Okay Sherlock,” He grinned. “Should I be leaving shortly then so you can get to work?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Of course, how else am I to surprise you with the best 'five-bloody-star meal' you’ll ever eat?”

“Bit braggy, are we?” John countered, brunch gone and arms now crossed. _Cocky. Why?_

“It’s conceited, and yes,” Sherlock stated, rapidly going through the possibilities of why John would seem cocky and...outright smug. And then he got it.

“You fancy,” he growled, eyes narrowing, “that I’m some sort of repentant submissive housewife type.”

John busted into laughter, slapping the table. _Unacceptable._ Sherlock stood abruptly, his chair flying out and toppling over somewhere behind him. He paid no mind. “ _Out,_ ” he snarled, point in the direction of their front door.

“Now, now,” John chortled, too amused with himself. “What happened the last time you did this?” He paused, looking at Sherlock with a grin. "At this rate you'll have to be cooking every night this week."

Sherlock rounded the table quickly at that, taking John up by his shirt and forcibly escorting him out the door. “Out, out, _out,_ you great annoyance,” he muttered as threateningly into John’s ear as he could while still maintaining composure at the fact that John’s warm scent was now thick in his nose.

“I haven’t even had a shower yet!” John protested, flailing his arms around as he resisted without success.

“Job for Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock grunted without mercy, holding John's rumpled shirt in one hand to keep him still while he threw the door open with his other.

“How did you know-“

“That you have a stash of clothes and a shaving kit at her flat?” Sherlock finished, shoving John into the hallway. “Not hard. You like thinking you’re sneaky and that you don’t have to notify me by coming into the flat to gather things so you can sneak off to sleep at some date’s house.” John blanched.

“Be back at eight. I left formal attire waiting for you at Mrs. Hudson’s.” And with that, he shut the door on John. _There, easy part over._  Sherlock leaned against the door for a moment, listening to John's footsteps as he obediently did as he had been told, and mulled over his plans for the rest of the day.

With John taken care of, it was now officially time to go to the market and prepare for the evening. First, he had to have groceries. No use going out the front door so John could easily see him and follow, should he so desire. Sherlock grabbed his coat and threw it on, slinging his scarf around his neck as he walked to the window in the living room. He slinked through it easily and managed his way gracefully to the ground.

 _Time to go—_ He shuddered, partially for dramatic effect, partially because dramatic effect made things seem more interesting to him and he needed the boost— _Shopping._


	4. Dinner and a Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served. Sara Teasdale's poem comes up, with a rendition by Sherlock. Smut lies ahead, be warned.

Shopping was done, food was done, Sherlock was minimally injured (He couldn’t say the same for Mrs. Hudson’s blender…a fruit smoothie somehow seemed like a good thing to make as a break from the real cooking…however, whole oranges and apples proved to be too much for the machine. He suspected as much, he just didn’t predict the resulting small fire).

Otherwise, all was well and in place. The table was set, candles were lit and twinkling perfectly, the table cloth was just the right shade of maroon (the scratches on the wood were too unseemly to not cover up), the kitchen was cleaned so completely that it actually looked out of place from the rest of the flat, Sherlock was clean and in a purple silk button-up, black slacks, black Italian leather shoes, and a black blazer, and the food looked delicious.

He had decided on a light salad with fresh cucumbers, carrots, cherry tomatoes, grated cheese, and a garlic olive dressing for the appetizer, along with an optional avocado and lobster dip with fresh pita chips. That would be followed by the main course of the freshest rib-eye steaks he could get his hands on (very easy to do since he helped the local butcher figure out that his wife wasn’t really cheating on him at all and just had self-issues that caused her to be so distant), seasoned expertly and grilled to a perfect medium-rare, just the way John liked it.

He complemented the steaks with the silkiest mashed potatoes he could produce, laced with freshly picked and chopped parsley, and a garden assortment of freshly steamed vegetables. He was following dinner with a cheesecake dessert that took entirely too long to make, which would be garnished with plump red cherries and fresh whipped cream that he made, with an optional fudge drizzle should John be in the chocolate mood. He had gotten the bottle of Chono Carmenère Reserva, a wine that held its origins from Chile and was extremely complementing to the medium rare rib-eyes, from the fridge and popped the cork out to let it breathe around five minutes ago, so everything was officially ready.

He was ready… _Probably._

He clasped his hands together and placed them under his chin, gazing at his work critically. He dashed to adjust a candle so it was just properly in line with its mate and returned to his previous stance, his eyes roaming around the kitchen, looking for any flaws. When he found none, he glanced at his watch.

 _7:55Pm._ John would be here in five minutes. Sherlock felt his heart pound hard against his chest. Tonight was the night, really the actual night. He was going to tell John how he felt. How he, the unfeeling sociopath, the logical, numerical, analytical Sherlock Holmes, had managed to fall into some sort of feeling that was most likely love. With John.

He had thought about it long and hard, and could find no better words to tell the man than some that he had found already written down and had spoken to his own heart. John surely would see the beauty in the poem, surely would at least appreciate Sherlock’s prestigious reciting of the lilting words as he poured his heart out to him. Surely.

He wasn’t so much worried that John would cry or laugh at him— _Maybe a little_ —rather, he was more concerned in the fact that he couldn’t accurately predict what John would do period. But there was no turning back. It was happening, tonight, now, right after dinner, or maybe before.  _But then the food would get cold—_

He heard the door downstairs open, and he checked his watch. _8:00Pm._ Always on time, ever the soldier. His heart beat faster. He forced it back to normal. He met John’s footsteps at the door, opening it grandly as he was greeted with a dapper looking John in charcoal slacks and matching blazer, with a black dress shirt and shining black dress loafers.

“You look fantastic,” Sherlock said before he realized he said it outloud.

John rolled his eyes, laughing at him.“I suppose I should; you dressed me today,” he replied, stepping past Sherlock into their flat. “God that smells delicious!”

Sherlock didn’t try to repress his smug grin. “I am a master chef,” he stated, “You will probably die from how good my meal tastes.”

“Shut it Sherlock,” John laughed, walking into the kitchen with wide eyes and big gasps at the remodeled kitchen.

_Obviously impressed. So far, so good._

“Sherlock, you didn’t have to do all this-“ John started, a look of surprised wonderment on his face.

“A promise is a promise,” Sherlock cut in, pulling out John’s chair for him and motioning him to sit. John obliged, and while he looked his meal over appreciatively Sherlock poured the wine into two glasses, sitting it next to the glasses of water at each place he set with easy grace. “I do hope you enjoy,” Sherlock said, brushing past John and sitting at his own place. The candles were just low enough that John could see Sherlock easily, and Sherlock nodded internally. _Cut them down just perfectly._

“I am starving,” John said, digging in with excitement. Sherlock ignored his food for the moment, preferring to revel in the groans of approval his meal got.

“So tell me what you did with your spare time today,” Sherlock prompted after a few minutes, knowing John would need no more prodding to launch his tale. Sherlock ate and listened to John’s day, loving the way how he painted pictures with his words to impress Sherlock. He was actually quite good at it.

 _Of course, that’s why he’s the blogger. And I’m not. Not very good with meaningful words…_ He noticed his hands were shaking. Another realization. He put down his silverware. He forgot that he wasn’t so good with saying important things. He preferred short, concise statements. Which wasn't at all what he was about to do. There weren't enough instances of him doing things like this; he had next to zero data to base speculation of what the quality of his upcoming performance would be. He was, for the first time he could recount, about to do something very poorly planned. It was probably due to the fact that new emotions were in the way of his planning for this, which didn't help him feel any better at all.

“Sherlock?” His head jerked up.

“Hm?” He asked, not trusting his voice to speak.

John looked at him in a concerned way, his forehead wrinkling as he studied him. “You’ve grown pale, you okay?” He asked.

“Oh-Yes, fine,” Sherlock forced the reply too stiffly, knowing as he said it his tone wouldn’t allow his lie to be believed.  _So h_ _ere we go._ He gritted his teeth.

“You don’t sound okay,” John said slowly, putting his utensils down, obviously not understanding Sherlock's sudden mood change. Not that he should, or possibly could have.

Well actually, John,” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to swallow down the waver in his voice. “John, I have something I’d like to say to you. I think it’s something important that needs to be said. I can’t _not_ say it.” He shut himself up before he started babbling. He had never before been so out of control. Of his mind, his words, his emotions. His mind was reeling.

“Oh…kay…” John said curiously, resting his chin on folded hands, looking at Sherlock with an inquisitive expression.

“I-it-it’s actually something I’ll recite to you, if you don’t mind.” _Don’t mind._

“I don’t mind,” John answered in a soft voice, his face serious as he processed their conversation.

 _Probably thinks it’s an experiment._ Sherlock caught himself before he could retreat into his internal dialogue, conscious of the fact that he was again not speaking. It was causing long pauses in the conversation, and those were something he did not want. He wanted to seem confident and fearless like he always seemed, and this was not the way to do it.

_S_ _top thinking. Act._

His stomach flipped as he pushed himself up to a standing position. _Legs weak. Bit not good._ “It’s a-poem,” he started, holding to the table for support. “I thought of you when I read it.”

John’s head tilted to the side, the spot between his eyebrows furrowed slightly, his glance briefly noting Sherlock's nervous grasp on the table. As a response Sherlock removed his hands, feeling like he was now untethered and vulnerable. He hoped it didn't show.

_Confusion. He has no idea what I’m on about. Continue._

Sherlock pulled in a huge breath very quietly, steeling himself for his biggest confession.

“Sherlock?”

He held up a staying hand, quieting John. A moment longer passed.

_Speak._

He couldn’t speak. His voice had somehow forgotten how to work. He felt color draining from his face. This could not be happening. He had never gotten stage fright in his life, and this was not the time to be developing it. He couldn't have this happen, after all his planning and effort and  _desire for this to work_ and he  _still wasn't bloody talking._

 _Now now now._ His mind was screaming. He felt nauseous. He wasn't losing like this. Not like this. 

“Sher-“

“I am not yours!” Sherlock blurted out quickly, loudly. _Fuck bloody fuck I have no rhythm set it's not smooth at all._

John’s eyebrows went up instantly. His mouth opened again, but Sherlock cut him off quickly.

“Not lost in you,” He continued, pausing ever so slightly before continuing, gaining rhythm, tone. Softly, slowly, now looking finally in John’s eyes, he kept going.

“Not lost, although I long to be.”

John’s draw dropped. _Jaw drop. Indicates shock. He gets it. Keep going._

“Lost as a candle, lit at noon," he drew out in a lilting murmur, "Lost as a snowflake, in the sea."

He paused again. Took a breath. Briefly congratulated himself on sounding much more composed than he felt.

John’s mouth remained parted; he looked at Sherlock with some expression Sherlock was too terrified to process. _My heart may explode. Not an exaggeration. Dying may be a good thing._

“You love me, and I find you still...” He took another, shaky breath.

“A spirit, beautiful and bright.” He pressed on. “Yet I am…”

He shook.His voice softened. He looked down again.  _What am I? Hopeless._

“I am…" _  
_

"I am…" He looked back up, and saw the light of understanding shining in John's eyes.

"I…who long to be…lost as a light, is lost in light.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed, and Sherlock shook his head. _Not yet John._ His next inhale was full; he was beyond regret now, beyond fear.

“Oh, plunge me deep in love!” He declared, slamming his hands down onto the table, suddenly meaning what he said more than anything he’d ever said in his life, looking right into John’s beautiful blue eyes.

“Put out my senses, leave me deaf and blind! Swept by the tempest of your love, a taper in the rushing wind!”

His voice echoed through the flat. John was completely quiet. _John may not be breathing._

But he kept going. He had to. John had to hear it all.

“I am…lost, as a candle is lost in the light.” He murmured softly to John, his eyes tearing up. _No_ emotion.  _Stop it._

“But, not lost in you.” He heard the obvious longing in his voice, heard the tremor of feeling in his own words.  _Foolish emotion. Redundant. Turn off._

He felt tears break from his eyes, rolling swiftly down his cheeks. He looked down again. _Why am I crying? Because I mean it?  Because it's hopeless, and I still mean it?_

He looked back up, into John’s eyes. “Still, I long to be…eternally…lost in you.” Sherlock finished, stopped.

Silence filled the room for what seemed like an eternity. Sherlock dropped his gaze, not being able to bear John's reaction. He didn't want to see the obvious non verbal answers he would find if he looked up. He couldn't do it. John was so quiet, too quiet.

His heart felt like it wasn’t even daring to beat, his every fiber staying frozen in the drawn out silence, waiting for John to say something, _anything._

“Sher..lock.” John stated finally, in an odd voice. Sherlock looked up to find John looking at him, his dark blue eyes wide and clouded with some thought, some emotion Sherlock couldn’t read, reflecting the symbolic candle light on the table.

“John.” Sherlock answered in a small voice. _That tone. Never heard that tone from him before. What does the tone mean?_

They stared at each other from across the table, no longer speaking. Sherlock felt sick as the silence stretched. John was unreadable, to Sherlock's dismay. He sat as a soldier, his face a mask that for the first time concealed his thoughts to Sherlock.  _Bad idea, why the hell would I do this! Now John will leave and I will be alone without him and oh God I can’t be without him I did that for two years and it was nearly unbearable-_

Sherlock stopped thinking as John slowly pushed his chair from the table, getting up, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. Solemnly John walked around the table, took Sherlock’s upper arms in his hands, turned him so they faced each other. _He’s going to hit me. He was a soldier; why didn't I already know he would be disgusted?_

“Sherlock.” John said again, low and intense, very nearly almost a growl. Sherlock looked into his flat mate’s eyes, not sure what he wanted, saying nothing. He barely breathed, the shallow movements almost unnoticeable. Not that he could draw a full breath if his life depended on it.

_If you hit me, make it kill me._

John slowly inched their faces closer, pulling Sherlock in by his arms He stiffened, frantically raked his eyes over John’s face, trying to figure out what he was doing.

_Is he going to bite me, what is he doing oh God I don’t know what to say-_

John noticed Sherlock's terrified confusion, and took pity. “I’m going to kiss you now, Sherlock,” he murmured, his breath hitting Sherlock’s lips in small hot puffs.

Sherlock sucked in another breath, eyes feeling like they may pop out. _Kiss? Kiss? John? Kiss? How do I kiss a John? No memory of kissing in mind palace. No memory to fall back on._

John seemed to take his silence as an incentive to continue, and leaned the rest of the way to press their lips together.

Sherlock’s heart stuttered in his chest. _Christ._ He brushed his lips against John’s, softly, so softly, not believing it was real.  _Dreaming, must be dreaming. No record of John kissing other men ever, period.. Oh, but John’s kissing me._  

John pressed them firmly together, now tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and dragging his head down for better leverage, gracefully gliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.

_Christ Christ what am I feeling-_

Sherlock groaned before he could stop himself, pressing himself against John eagerly, his body suddenly acting on it's own. He grabbed at the blazer John wore, tugging it off as they moved their bodies against each other. He felt his own blazer get ripped off, and somehow they both ended up on the floor, John greedily kissing up and down Sherlock’s neck while he pushed his hands up Sherlock’s shirt. It was as if both their bodies had been waiting for the damn to break, and once it had all inhibitions were gone, drowned in the flood of their desire. Sherlock shivered as John’s wonderfully warm, calloused hands ran up his back, skimming back down to grab his hips, _lifting_ him up and into John’s lap.

He straddled John willingly, hooking his legs behind John’s back, grabbing handfuls of the blonde-grey hair he loved, kissing John as if his life depended on it, his senses overloaded with the musky smell and heady taste and rough but gentle texture of _John John John_. John huffed against his mouth and pushed his hips up into Sherlock, making his hips automatically respond with their own movement.

Soon they were grinding together, gasping and kissing and biting and clawing off articles of clothing. Sherlock shuddered and bent his head to bite John’s shoulder muscle, so well developed and strong under his teeth, trying to resist whatever urge that was growing in his lower pelvic region, hot and sharp and electric. _Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God._

“Sherlock?!” John suddenly stopped, making Sherlock take a shuddering breath in from the pain the lack of movement brought to him.

“ _Ahhh,_ ” Sherlock responded, screwing his eyes shut in annoyance as John tried to make him look up.

“Sherlock what’s wrong, 'oh God' what, what did I do?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John, who was obviously scared he had done something wrong. He realized he must have been chanting his thoughts out loud. He couldn't be asked to care about the lack of control, though.

“Nothing wrong, didn’t mean to say it out loud,” Sherlock gasped. “My body-here-“ he put his hand low on his abdomen, between his hip bones, noticing for the first time they were both hard and shirtless and sported an assortment of scratches, bites, and hickies on their skin. 

 _John’s beautiful. Half naked. Pressed against me. Hot._ The pang hit again as John's cock twitched against him, the feeling electric. “Ah, John!” He looked at John pleadingly, willing him to understand.

A light came on in John’s eyes. “Sherlock, have you never…”

Sherlock shook his head, already knowing what John was going to ask. “Never had sex. Too tedious. But-with you-“

They looked at each other.

“I should have known,” John chuckled, bumping their foreheads together. “I’m sorry. Would you like me to go slower?”

Sherlock shook his head, lacing his fingers through John's hair, pulling his face up to meet his gaze. “No, go as fast as we just were,” His voice sounded odd; lower, rougher. He ignored it. “Go faster.”

John looked at him, a predatory, hungry look coming into his eyes. “You’re sure?” He asked in a low voice, their eyes locked. John’s eyes were clouded with something dark and voracious, his breath hot on Sherlock’s face. His hands were heavy and hot grasping Sherlock's lower back, already pressing them more firmly together.

Sherlock nodded, bit his lower lip hard. _Yes, yes now now now. "_ I'm an adult, I'm perfectly capable of knowing what I want."

“My room.” John stated in response. It wasn't a statement; it was an order. Sherlock rose without a fight and without a word allowed John to pull them to his room, tidy in comparison to Sherlock’s, probably due to his time as a soldier, _Oh God they were really doing this._

“Come here,” John said roughly, interrupting Sherlock's inner thoughts and automatic appraisal of his room, pulling Sherlock against his body as he crushed him in an embrace. John claiming his mouth roughly, making the feeling in Sherlock’s lower pelvic region come back.  John pushed him against the now closed door and placed his thigh in between Sherlock's legs, moving against him in a way that made Sherlock's legs weak.

“Mmm,” Sherlock moaned around John’s tongue, grabbing the man’s hips and grinding their bodies together, which was somehow making the pain down past his hips both better and worse. _Baffling._  

John broke their kiss and slung Sherlock around, onto his bed, like he weighed nothing. Sherlock bounced once and looked up as John followed, the sight of the determined ex solider only focused on _him_  one of the most arousing things he had ever seen. John came down after him, on top of him quickly, grinding his hips into Sherlock without mercy.

“Need this, oh God need this, need you John, _John,_ ” Sherlock moaned loudly before he could help it, feeling his dick straining against his pants, against John’s own bulging lump, thrusting his hips up hard against John, slapping his palm over the nearly unbearable sensation bordering on pain that he was feeling in his intestines. “ _God!”_ He moaned, scratching down John’s shoulders, feeling John shudder against him in response. With a huge breath John lifted off him, making Sherlock whimper from the loss.

“No-“ Sherlock objected, panting irregularly, grasping up at John. He  _needed_ John.

“Hush Sherlock, you’re being too loud,” John chastised, laughing breathlessly. “You’ll get everyone up here thinking I’m killing you.”

Sherlock shook his head violently in response. No way would they think that. Not if what he was thinking in his head was coming out so easily from his throat. “No, no, no, John, come _here,_ ” He succeed in pulling John back down and into a kiss before the other man lifted again slightly.

“Sherlock, let me undress you,” John said in a low voice, looking for approval with that same hungry desire in his wide-blown eyes.

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed back, lifting his hips and letting John slide his pants and boxers off, not modest, whimpering again as the fabric rubbed against his swollen erection briefly. There was a gasp from John above him, then hands sliding over his bare skin.

“You’re beautiful,” John groaned into Sherlock’s stomach, earning an intelligible response from Sherlock. _Jesus he’s against my stomach._ John kissed Sherlock’s skin for a moment before coming back up to lock lips again, quickly undressing himself the rest of the way too. Sherlock felt a moment of regret at the fact he had not thought to do the undressing, but realized they were both absolutely naked now, and quickly figured out what he wanted from the situation.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock murmured to John.

To his surprise, John looked apprehensive. “You’re sure? If it’s your first…It’ll hurt.” Sherlock made a scornful noise in the back of his throat. 

 _I know how men have sex. I studied it._ “Don’t care,” He said out loud, in a low velvet voice he suspected would wreck John.  “ _Get inside me._ ”

To his satisfaction John groaned at Sherlock’s tone and reached for his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube. “Tell me if I hurt you,” John insisted huskily as he slicked up his fingers.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, jerking up with a gasp as John’s finger traced around his entrance. “I’m serious Sherlock,” John said firmly, making Sherlock whimper as he slid a finger in, his other hand wrapping gently around his already wet dick. “It will damage you if you let me hurt you, you have to tell me-”

“ _Yesyesyesyes,”_ Sherlock agreed helplessly, jerking from the intrusion, from the sensation of John's hand stroking his cock.  His body wasn't sure if it wanted to fuck the foreign thing or get it out, but as John started sliding his hand up and down more firmly everything began to feel heightened, and he decided the sensation wasn't so bad after all .

“Calm down!” John chortled.

“ _Uhhhhh,_ ” Sherlock moaned back, his voice and body hitching up as John found the bundle of nerves previously unknown inside his body, his hands fluttering up to grip John's shoulders for something concrete to hold on to as he was battered by sensation. “Ah! How did you do that- _Ah!_ -“

John pressed down against him, taking his hand away from Sherlock's cock to instead cover his mouth. “Sherlock, _hush_.”

He probed deeper, sliding another finger in, and Sherlock convulsed. _Tight tight burning so tight-_

“What?” John asked, letting up on Sherlock’s mouth.

“ _Tight,”_ Sherlock gritted through his teeth, sucking in air as John slid his fingers firmly against his prostate again, his other hand nimbly going back to stroking his dick. He whimpered, the noise sounding wrecked and desperate to his ears.

“Does it hurt?” John asked, still going, in and out, rhythmically gliding up and down his cock, perfectly hitting everywhere that needed to be hit.

“ _No,_ ” Sherlock moaned. _More more more._ He jerked against John’s fingers, pulled John down for a kiss. Sherlock felt John’s swollen dick pressed against his skin, leaking fluid onto him. _John needs it too. Must have John._

Sherlock reached down and took John in his hand, proud at the noise he induced from John’s throat, pumping his dick a few times experimentally before deciding that John was aroused enough and _yes_ it would hurt because John wasn’t the least bit small and _no_ he wouldn’t be saying anything about pain because they _needed_ to be joined together, right _now_.

“Sherlock,” John reprimanded in heavy pants, taking his previously occupied hand and removing Sherlock’s own from his dick. Sherlock again made a keening noise despite himself at the loss, his scheme of sneaking John into himself while he was otherwise busy ruined. “You can’t just do that, you aren’t near ready yet.”

Sherlock squirmed, heat radiating from his body, inside his body, reflected and absorbing John’s heat. “I want you,” He whined, disappointed that it didn’t come out more demanding.

John responded with stretching Sherlock in earnest, slipping a third finger into him and scissoring him open as Sherlock writhed and moaned underneath him in a painful sort of ecstasy he hadn't known was an actual sensation before. John mashed his mouth to Sherlock’s in an attempt to muffle the sounds Sherlock wasn’t trying to quiet and slipped out of him.

 “ _John_ ,” Sherlock snarled, furious at the audacity John dared show by stopping, clawing at the man on top of him.

“God’s sake, _hush_ Sherlock,” John flung back in a growl, slicking himself up and guiding his dick slowly into Sherlock.

“ _Ah!_ ” Sherlock seized up against the sudden intrusion, and _it fucking hurt_.

“Relax Sherlock, you need to relax,” John gritted out, pinning both of Sherlock’s pale small wrists against the pillows.

“J-John-“ Sherlock was trembling, he felt it, what was he supposed to do, how to relax when John was trying to go  _right inside him_ and-

Suddenly John was kissing Sherlock, pressing his lips softly, tenderly, lovingly, against Sherlock’s. John’s tongue took on its own mission and swiped over Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking gently on it before letting go and moving south. He kissed all over Sherlock’s jawline, collar bone, neck, shoulder, burrowing into the soft flesh with tender sucks and warm licks that somehow made Sherlock’s body melt. John slowly slid inch by inch the rest of the way into Sherlock, kissing up and down his pale neck and face all the while.

“John,” Sherlock said again, looking up at the doctor, who was grinning back down at him in triumph.

“I know how the body works; I’ll take care of you,” John said back, pressing his lips onto Sherlock’s own again. “I’ll always take care of you,” He whispered against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock made a small sound in his throat, turning to kiss John’s face, deciding to hold off on processing the heart-wrenching emotion that came in response to those words in favor of taking care of the clear needs of their bodies.

“Move, John,” Sherlock insisted in a breathless whisper, politely considering there was a vast intrusion reaching ridiculously deep into him yet remained completely immobile. He flexed and John moaned from the sensation. He took action, instantly ready the second Sherlock was, and began pulling out and pushing back in slowly, angling himself to hit Sherlock exactly where it felt the best. Panting, they picked up the pace, messily and hurriedly acting upon what their bodies demanded. John no longer bothered to try and quell Sherlock’s raucous words or moans or exclamations as they became frenzied. John gathering both of Sherlock’s wrists into one hand and using his other to grab Sherlock’s pulsing cock, twisting his wrist with each upward stroke like an expert.

“John- _John oh my stomach-ohh_! _”_ Sherlock moaned, trying to squirm away, get his hands back, anything to get a degree of control over the sensation spreading like wildfire throughout his entire body, hot and deep and intense. It was no use, he was pinned; he felt all the strength John usually hid being used against him, and he couldn't get away from it no matter how hard he tried.

“Sherlock you’re going to come for me, quit trying to stop it,” John moaned roughly back, thrusting determinedly. “You’re going to come, just like this, and you won’t bloody well fight it.”

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock pleaded, the words destroying his will, flooding him a hot tingling feeling of pleasure. He writhed erratically, wrenching his eyes shut as the sensation neared some threshold, threatening to overtake him very soon, going to someplace he had no what to do about. _Too intense. God no too intense can’t make it stop too much inside me too much going on Christ-_

Suddenly it overtook him in a rush, his mouth opening but no sound coming out as his back arched itself off the bed and further onto John, his whole body stilling for a split second and then coming back to life with vigor. His every muscle contracted as an intense sharp delicious pleasure convulsed through his body, semen spurting thickly from his cock onto his and John’s stomachs and chests.

He felt himself constricting and pulsating around John, making the man utter something unintelligible as he gave a final deep thrust and buried himself inside Sherlock, spilling his hot fluid into his body, making him hitch upwards again. Gradually they stilled, panting heavily, their chests heaving against each other. They grasped at each other and pressed themselves together desperately, breathing hotly onto the other’s skin as they came down from a mutual high.

For a long moment it was as if the world had stilled, everything frozen in respect of the even that had occurred. _Obviously not just friends, not just flatmates anymore._ Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John’s soft neck skin, smelling the heavy scent of John and sweat and sex in the air. He had never felt more satisfied in his entire life, not even when he was able to beat Mycroft in something in front of witnesses.  _Congratulations. Good move, telling him. Stop thinking about Mycroft with John on top of you._

He yawned. _Brain is lagging._ He thought back, in a daze, and wondered at the last time he had slept. Or felt this tired. _  
_

“Sherlock,” John asked, grabbing his attention. They looked into each other’s eyes, and Sherlock saw his own ravished face reflected briefly before realizing how absolutely, stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful John was after sex. He glowed, his face was flushed, his lips were slightly puffy.

“I have intense kissing skills, it would seem,” Sherlock nodded slightly at John, grinning.

John laughed. “You should see you, okay?” He retorted. “Can I have my body back now?” He asked with a grin. Sherlock realized he had his legs wrapped tight around John’s waist in a death grip and languidly looked over the problem. 

 _Can’t seem to remember how to work legs. Why would John want his body back anyway._ Sherlock decided not to care and instead nuzzled deeper into John’s neck. “No, don’t think so,” He replied, muffled in John’s delicious skin.

John sighed and with a slight grunt worked to untangle himself from Sherlock’s grip. Once they were met with a challenge, his legs quickly found no strength, and Sherlock allowed them to fall against the sheets lifelessly. He hissed at the fleeting pain as John pulled out of him and grew alarmed as John got out of the bed altogether.

“John?” Sherlock asked, panicked, moving his head to find the other man. _Did he realize this isn’t what he wanted? What did I do wrong? He’s leaving, he’s going to leave me after this-_

“Sherlock I’ll be right back," he said in a reassuring tone over his shoulder. "I’m getting something to clean us up with a bit." Sherlock watched as John found something on his dresser and came back to the bed, a towel in hand.

Sherlock relaxed again as John cleaned his stomach and chest with soft strokes that made him dizzy with how good it felt, and how tired he was. John quickly wiped off his own and Sherlock gave a satisfied sigh when John climbed back into bed and threw a blanket over them. _Too perfectly warm. Too perfectly John._

John rolled Sherlock over and cradled him from behind, slipping one strong arm under Sherlock’s head while draping the other over his slight waist, kissing his neck softly. “Did I hurt you?” He asked, kissing Sherlock’s upper back.

“No,” Sherlock replied hazily, managing to slur the word somehow. John breathed easily against Sherlock’s neck, placing another light kiss there.

“I love you, Sherlock. I really do. I always did.” Sherlock settled against John’s warm body, the words distant sounds in his ears. There wasn't a better place to be, really. It was perfection.

“Perfect fit,” he murmured, sliding a hand up to grasp John’s above his head. And with that, Sherlock drifted to a deep and easy sleep.


End file.
